On Seattle's Shore
by VivintheValley
Summary: Fyre is an orphan in the ruins of Seattle. When the kaiju, thought defeated, begin to return with a mysterious agenda, she realizes her true calling is to pilot a jaeger of her own. Convincing the new Marshall Herc Hansen and the PPDC that she's qualified, however, is going to take a fight all its own. Disclaimer: This fic is intended as tongue-in-cheek. Full cheese ahead.


Chapter 1

Fyre didn't feel much like her name tonight. If she felt anything, it was damp, bedraggled and besogged as she huddled with the other orphans from her gang beneath what used to be a bridge overpass. It offered them meager shelter against the constant Seattle rain.

Used to be, that was a phrase that came up a lot in Fyre's life lately.

This _used to be_ an overpass, there _used to be_ a school she went to. _Used to be_ she had a mom and a dad and maybe a baby brother and even a proper name.

Not anymore. Not since the kaiju came to Seattle, reducing what _used to_ _be_ the Emerald City to a pile of ugly rocks. Even now that the legendary Gipsy Danger had turned back the big tide of monsters, recovery on the West Coast of the United States was slow. Civilization had been on the brink of expiration. These outlying cities had been first and hardest hit, and mostly abandoned as a result. Now only the brave, the stupid, or those with nothing to lose remained.

Not that Fyre thought much about those topics. Politics, economics, nah. Her attention was on more important things, like staying dry, grabbing some food, and keeping her position as the gang's ace.

Ace, boss, whatever you wanted to call it. Fyre hadn't started out trying to be a leader. First was that she was just hoping to be accepted to the gang. The boys'd seemed brave to her, daring. They taunted the sellers at the seaside market, running a game where two or three would distract a merchant while a couple of smaller, faster kids would slip in and grab food. They kept together, and no one bothered them 'cause they were like a pack. A pack of coyotes was still a pack, still a family. And she wanted in.

At first they scoffed at her, ignored her. But she kept tagging along, always running after them until one day, they got in a turf war with a group of meaner boys from Capitol Hill. She threw herself into the fray with abandon. Afterwards, Ollie, the boy with the funny accent and pop-out ears, laughed and said, "We shoulda guessed with that 'air of 'ers. She's a reglar' little fire-ball." Except he didn't say it fire, like everyone else did, his accent caused him to emphasize the second half of the world, so it came out more like fie-yer. The other boys immediately picked it up, yelling it over and over to mock Ollie: "Fie-yer, fie-yer." And just like that, Fyre had a new name and a place in the gang.

She'd worked her way up since. It'd taken a few years, but she had an edge: Fyre didn't really care, not the way others cared. She'd had everything, now she had nothing. So what did she have left to lose? This created a sort of recklessness that looked, to a group of immature boys, like daring and bravery. She was smart enough, too, that she could think fast and turn her calculated—or uncalculated risks—to her favor, even when things went wrong. Gradually the boys began to respect her, and even look up to her. Only a few, like Ollie, seemed to see her recklessness for what it really was. However, most of the time Ollie, liking his position as her second in command and principle advisor, had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

But now he glared at her. It was her fault they were here, tonight, huddled under the overpass instead of in the comparatively warm and dry empty house where they normally squatted. Huddling lower, feeling the cold water droplets slide down her scalp—her red curls were a sodden mess now, plastered against her head—Fyre ignored the look. She didn't need his grief, she was paying for her mistake, wasn't she? Problem was the gang was, too. And they weren't gonna forget this any time soon, that was damn sure. It was her idea to risk crossing the old-floating bridge—now more a loose connection of old floaters, pilons and concrete beams—across Lake Washington to Mercer Island. She'd heard that the rich people used to live out here. Where there were rich people, she reasoned, there was rich loot.

That promised treasure had been worth the risk, in her mind. Truth was, street life was wearing thin. Sure, she could still scrap with the best of them, and she loved the freedom—no school, no rules. But she was, by her best estimate, about sixteen years old, give or take. About the point where her actions were going to change from 'lovable, childish antics' to 'adult criminal behavior.' Now was the time to find a new direction.

Just what that direction would be, she hadn't a clue. But she'd hoped that she might find the funds to get started down a more respectable path out here in No Man's Island, where the rich had fled long ago and the poor didn't dare approach. Unless, that was, they were the daring orphans of her gang.

Problem was, the trip across the bridge had been slow, much slower than she thought it would be. It had been sunny when they started, but with characteristic unpredictability, a summer storm had rolled in off of the Puget Sound. The ruins of the floating bridge were still connected, but navigating the crushed bits and pieces of concrete and the iron skeleton of exposed rebar had been made treacherous by and increasingly rough waters as the wind picked up, and the footing became slicker and less sure as the rain fell and the waves splashed higher.

They even almost lost one. The smallest, Bobby, about 7, hadn't quite made one jump when they were two thirds across. He'd slid down the angled concrete, headed straight for the water. Fyre had wedged one of her boots in between two pieces of rebar and thrown herself after him, snagging him by the edge of his hoody before he slid into the icy waters of Lake Washington. It took three of the biggest boys to haul them up again.

Bobby, wet and traumatized and still small, slowed them down. They were lucky to reach the end of the bridge—Oliver kissing the rocky beach of the island—just as the sun set.

Now Bobby shivered in the cold, plastered against Fyre, still solidly wet from his bath in the lake. Really he needed a proper fire to warm up, but all they'd managed was a pitiful little flame that struggled and sputtered and threatened to go out at any moment. The gang was stranded in unfamiliar turf, not sure what to do or where to go next. Crossing back, in the dark, in a storm, was out of the question. Fyre might have risked it herself, but she knew the smaller kids would never dare. There were houses nearby, but even Fyre knew better than to break and enter a home before casing it proper. Most people who'd hung onto their homes through all this were now well armed and not likely to ask questions.

They'd have to wait the night out. And she'd have to pray the risk had been worth it. Else Oliver might find himself as the unwilling gang leader by sunset tomorrow—and she'd find herself on the bottom of the lake.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, an irregular noise that shook Fyre to her bones. _Great_, Fyre thought, _as though this night could get any worse._

As though in answer to her statement, the rumble returned, this time closer. Fyre blinked—she hadn't seen any lightning. Next to her, Bobby sat up straight, eyes wide. His breath hitched. Oliver, too, glanced her way. The noise came again. And louder. Like it was getting closer. Now the entire gang, Bobby, Oliver, Lee, Kal, Emily, and even Alex—shaken awake, always needing to be shaken—were awake and looking to Fyre for guidance.

_Oh sure,_ she thought, _now that stuff's about to get bad, yer all my friends again._

And stuff _was_ about to get bad, she was sure of it. It had been a while, but she'd heard that noise, a long time ago, when she used to have a bed and teddy bear and a guaranteed Pop Tart before school every morning.

"Shhh." Fyre commanded, "We're hidden here. We lie low, don't panic." Six young heads nodded back. They neglected to say what they were all thinking: she'd forgotten a word: _yet_.

The thunder grew louder, faster, less intermittent. Then it disappeared, cutting out. In the distance, across the lake, they heard sirens and shouts. A small glow signaled a fire. But the sound was gone. She counted. One minute. Two. Five. She breathed a sigh of relief: it _was_ gone.

And then the head emerged from the lake. Slippery, with a long snout like an eel, but three sets of eyes, reptilian gold ones. Three sets of lids blinked close over the eyes, (that's 18 lids total, Fyre couldn't help but calculate) an aperture of a camera sliding closed and open again, and then they focused, with obvious intention, on the orphans hiding beneath the outcropping of the freeway overpass. The jaw alone was the size of a station wagon, and even in the dark Fyre could see the glimmer of rows and rows of sharp teath.

"Scatter." Fyre whispered, then, louder, "Scatter, scatter, scatter!"

It was one of the first commands they'd ever developed, and they obeyed instantly. Each orphan took off, running in their assigned directions, four orphans, four directions, with the two smallest assigned to a bigger companion.

"C'mon, Bobby, c'mon."

Bobby was Fyre's responsibility. She grabbed his hand, yanking him to his feet, but he was slow to respond—too tired, too cold, or wet clothes too heavy.

"C'MON." Fyre drug the small boy across the beach. She didn't look back—she didn't have to see the kaiju as it raised out of the water, step by deliberate step, as though it had all of the time in the world to pursue and devour her.

And in a way, it did. Fyre knew she'd never outrun the creature. It was easily twenty times her size. Still, she'd have to try. She stooped and Bobby jumped onto her back. He grabbed onto her shoulders and she took off, fast as she could, stumbling over the rough footing of the rocky beach, trying to avoid the evil grasp of the drift wood that came out of the dark and threatened to pull her off of her feet.

A growth of evergreens rose up to meet her. She just had to make cover, she told herself, make cover in the forest, keep low, hide. Sure, they'd still be at risk of getting stepped on, but it's not like a kaiju would ever take interest in a lowly pair of orphans. Kaiju were more interested in big acts of mega-destruction, right? They weren't so interested in the seek-and-destroy aspects of—

A piercing scream filled Fyre's ears. Bobby's hands around her neck became grasping, strangling claws as he dug his fingernails into her skin, scratching gouges. Yanked off balance, Fyre hit the ground, hard, about ten feet shy of the forest break. "Bobby, ow!" She yelled, reaching to pull him off of her—but something else was already doing that. Turning, she saw Bobby's face, eyes filled with abject terror as he clutched at the edge of her sweatshirt—one of his feet caught securely in the toothy grip of the eel-like kaiju.

"Let go of him!" Fyre screamed, reaching out to grab Bobby's arms before he could be drug away. For a half second, they were caught in a grim tug of war, both of her hands around Bobby's wrist, the kaiju's teeth on his leg. But of course, no 5'4" pint-sized orphan could ever outmatch a hundred-ton sea lizard monster _thing_. Fyre cried out again as the kaiju ripped Bobby from her grasp and then-much like a cat playing with its food—the kaiju tossed the small boy into the air. Bobby screamed as he went cartwheeling up into the air, a noise that was abruptly cut off as the kaiju leaped up and swallowed him whole.

Fyre could only stand and watch. Her stomach clenched. She knew, on a level, she should be terrified, or sad. But instead, she just felt angry. She'd risked life and limb—twice now!-to save that measly little orphan boy, and now this monster had the bloody gall to steal him from her? _After everything the kaiju had stolen from her, they were going to steal him, too?_

"You bloody bastard!" Fyre screamed. Reaching down, she picked up a rock, hurling it up at the creature. "You're a bloody butthead! I hate you!" Another rock followed the first. The kaiju turned to stare at Fyre, clearly evaluating just how high he would toss this nuisance before swallowing. She didn't care. She hurled another stone at it, hitting it in the eye this time. The kaiju hissed, his mouth opening to reveal not one, but three split-tongues, all fluttering with the noise. Fyre was done for now, she knew. Somehow, she just didn't care.

Then another rock hit the creature, this from about twenty yards down the beach. The kaiju turned, looking for the source, but the rock had come from the cover of the woods, the source cloaked in shadows. Another rock flew out, this time from another part of the woods, distracting the creature. It hissed once more.

Distraction. The other orphans were risking everything to give Fyre a chance to run, to hide. And all she had to do was go ten feet and she'd be safe in cover with the rest of them.

Something caught Fyre's eye, a steal pipe, three feet long, made sharp and jagged by rust and erosion. _You don't become head ace of the toughest gang in Seattle by running from a fight_. Reaching down, Fyre picked the pipe up. She turned back to face the kaiju.

"All right, fish face!" She screamed, "Thing's're a little more even now: wanna try again?"

The monster turned away from its investigation of the treeline, back to her. She could swear that its eyes lit up in comprehension: _This will be fun_, it was thinking.

"It sure will." She said in reply, smacking the pipe against her hand.

That was when the monster screamed, seeming to recoil in fear. For a moment, Fyre felt smug, like it had recoiled from her, from the threat of her.

Then she heard what she'd missed before—the grind and whir of hydraulics, the whir of a fan. She turned and looked up—and up. A massive steal hulk emerged from the fog behind her, crushing trees with each enormous step, the noble firs so much kindling crushed in the treads of its boots.

"_Jaeger_." She breathed, and then dove to the ground just as the machine stepped over her head.

The idea of kaiju feeling fear was, of course, nothing but a human conceit. The creature had only retreated slightly, gaining more favored ground and footing as it spun to launch an attack against the goliath jaeger. Fyre watched from the beach as the jaeger swung a fist that collided with the jaw of the heinous creature, throwing it further out into the lake. The jaeger pursued, giving no quarter. Not that the kaiju would have accepted anything less than a full-scale assault. Unconsciously, Fyre found herself drawn into the battle—the way one might a well-balanced boxing match—feinting with the jaeger, throwing shadow punches along with it, wincing when the kaiju landed blow—though it wasn't often. The shape of this machine she recognized. Everyone knew of the legendary Gipsy Danger, the jaeger that saved the world. She'd seen the action figure replicas they sold in the ruins of Pike Place Market, after all.

But no ten inch figure could match seeing the real thing in the flesh—so to speak. Her heart caught and raced at the sight of the enormous warrior as it slowly but surely beat the kaiju into submission.

No one would ever push Gipsy Danger around, no one would ever dare tell them they were too small, too weak. And anyone that tried to take something from Gipsy, well, the dead kaiju, now sinking to the bottom of the ocean, answered that question.

And that's when Fyre knew, with absolute certainty, what she wanted: a jaeger of her own.

To be continued...


End file.
